


Take Shelter

by turnedherbrain



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Banter, Bonding, Canon Compliant, Confessions, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Implied smut but kept it PG, Merlin Memory Month, Secrets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-16 13:09:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16086761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnedherbrain/pseuds/turnedherbrain
Summary: Arthur’s keen on Clarisse. She’s not so sure about him. And where does Gwen fit into all of this? Merlin, as always, is caught in the middle (sometimes, quite literally).





	1. The Lady Clarisse

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Merlin Memory Month – the visual prompt was a basket of blackberries.

‘Take this.’

Merlin took hold, then fumbled and dropped the rolled-up blanket, hurriedly retrieving it from the floor – all the while under Arthur’s irritated gaze.

‘And this.’ continued Arthur. ‘And this. Oh, and actually...’ He continued to load Merlin with objects at random, until the bridge of his manservant’s nose was level with the top of the teetering pile.

‘That too?’ Merlin’s muffled voice came, as he nodded with some difficulty at Arthur’s sword, still sheathed and lying on the dining table. Arthur shook his head decisively. His gaze said: _We’re going on a **picnic** , Merlin. What need do I have for a sword?_

There they stood. Arthur, half-dressed and wholly distracted; while Merlin felt the weight of his burden in all sorts of ways.

The prince sighed and looked more irritated than before. ‘Stop smirking, Merlin.’

‘I’m not...!’ The servant’s words came out as a faint protest, spoken into the random stack of objects he’d been given to hold.

‘'I’m not’ ... what? Smirking?’ Arthur’s voice was dipped in sarcasm. ‘Then how would you describe that self-satisfied yet mocking expression on your face?’

‘My lord? It’s my natural expression!’ Merlin dared to disagree. Silently, however, he wondered how the prince could see his face, given it was nearly obscured by an armload of miscellaneous but important ‘going on a picnic’ items.

…

Clarisse. That was her name. Clarisse.

The lady in question was the cause of Arthur’s disarray. Six days ago, she’d arrived at court with her father and their retinue for a week-long stay. She rode imperiously on an obedient charger, alighting in the castle courtyard with the greatest of ease: no man’s assistance expected or needed. Her skin was as pale as a marble-hewn statue. Her hair was white gold intermingled with sunshine. She was indeed perfection.

Wherever she walked, men’s eyes followed. Women’s eyes followed. _Everyone’s_ eyes followed. Dogs, cats, chickens… The entire kingdom fell abject under her gaze, wilting happily. Everyone… except Merlin, who had tasted the ultimate bitterness of losing his love, and protected himself against that siren-call of emotion.

Clarisse had the kind of beauty that could not be achieved through artifice, but had blossomed since her youth. There was one problem though: Arthur was completely under her spell, while she was equally disdainful of his attentions. This was how conversations between the two noble-borns went:

Arthur, at the banquet table, doing his absolute best to be mild and gentle: ‘Lady Clarisse, may I sit…?’

‘No.’ Clarisse replied, clearly and commandingly.

After the banquet, when the dance and entertainment was under way and all other eyes diverted, Arthur whispered: ‘Lady Clarisse, would you permit me to…?’

‘No.’ She spoke that syllable in her lowest whisper. Then, she added as an afterthought. ‘No, thank you.’

All of this was said while her face was slightly turned away, in semi-profile. It was meant to be a form of discouragement to the lovelorn Arthur, but it showed off her face to its prettiest advantage and made the prince even more smitten.

Arthur thought she was ‘an _angel_ tumbled down to earth.’

‘She’s definitely **_human_** ,’ countered Merlin.

But Arthur would hear none of it. So now, with just one more day before love’s torment left the court at Camelot, the beleaguered Clarisse had seemingly given way to Arthur’s soft siege. She was allowing him to take her on a picnic ‘with our chaperones. Not far from the castle. And for no longer than an hour.’

Arthur, overwhelmed by his good fortune, readily consented to her terms. Merlin suspected that Clarisse was quite sorry for Arthur, and her disdain was a necessary front. Beauty could be a kind of torment, perhaps, as to be so beautiful meant a life of dissuading dazed admirers.

So. They were going on a picnic. And Merlin’s burden was double, as he staggered like a loaded mule down the hallway stairs. The puppyish Arthur went ahead, bounding two steps at a time without any care to conceal his excitement.


	2. Into The Woods

The procession into the woods by Camelot started well enough. Soon, they’d left the proud turrets of the castle behind and entered under the protective foliage of trees. Clarisse rode expertly (which made Arthur admire her even more). Several times, Merlin had to issue a whistle of warning before his master became entangled in the lower branches of a tree, such was Arthur’s happy distraction.

Clarisse had requested that Gwen accompany her, and they rode alongside one another, making a beautiful pair. Arthur had admired Gwen for a long time, but due to the difference in their status, had guiltily kept that attraction secret. Now, he felt his hard-beating heart split in twain at the sight before him – his longed-for love, next to the recipient of his unabashed admiration.

‘Don’t get too big an eyeful,’ Merlin cautioned him _sotto voce_ as he trotted perkily by the prince, ‘or one of these branches will knock you out.’

‘Ha, ha, Merlin,’ countered Arthur. ‘Better watch where you’re going too, or you’ll be back at the palace in an instant, washing my particulars.’

Merlin wrinkled his nose, then reined in his mount, leaning over in the saddle until he was closer to Arthur’s ear. ‘I’m not sure what I’m looking forward to _less_ : you, trying to charm the luckless Clarisse at this picnic, or washing your foul-smelling undergarments.’

‘Clotpole,’ muttered Arthur.

‘Dollophead. The _prince_ of all dollopheads,’ murmured Merlin, encouraging his horse onwards.

‘I heard that!’

Thankfully, at that very moment, Clarisse raised her arm to draw the riders to a halt. ‘I say we picnic here. The sky is clouding. If we go further into the forest, we might get caught in a downpour.’

Merlin, glancing across at Arthur, saw a flicker of disguised excitement as the prince thought of a wet Clarisse and a wet Gwen and quite possibly a wet Merlin too and…

‘Hum hum,’ Merlin cleared his throat unsubtly. ‘I think the lady would like an answer?’ He nodded to Clarisse, who had turned questioningly to his master.

‘Yes! Yes! Absolutely, yes.’ Arthur answered without hesitation, uncontained excitement now in his voice. Clarisse appeared to emit a tiny sigh, then jumped cleanly off her horse, not caring if the long grass dragged at her skirts.

She wanted to be a man. To ride through the forest, unencumbered by these heavy skirts and restricting corsets. To command a whole troop of men – no, _women_. Strong, fearless women – who would ride wildly into battle with her. Yet here she was, with an already-soaking skirt, trying to avoid the well-meaning attentions of a prince. (‘He’ll make a good match,’ suggested her father. ‘No,’ replied Clarisse adamantly, adding as an afterthought: ‘No thank you, father.’)

The chosen picnic ground was a beautiful spot. The late summer sun filtered through the criss-cross of leaved branches, creating a pale gold kaleidoscope of light. The ground underfoot was soft with springy moss, and the trees encircling the clearing stood like ancient guardsmen, holding out their branches to salute the forest. 

Gwen suggested she make her way further into the woods for a short while, to pick blackberries. She’d brought a deep woven basket to collect them. For a brief moment, Merlin could swear that Clarisse lost her poise. ‘You’ll be safe with Merlin,’ Gwen assured her, taking gentle hold of Clarisse’s forearm. Gwen shot Merlin a look that said soundlessly: ‘Look after her.’

Merlin thought Clarisse was more than capable of looking after herself, but he nodded in acquiescence. Lifting her skirts above the fringe of grass, Gwen picked her way amongst the trees in the copse and was soon gone from sight. As Merlin went to tie up their horses, he turned around and for a short second, saw a tiny tremor of dismay on Clarisse’s face. Abandoned. Left with the prince and his manservant… She imagined charging full-tilt into battle; an image which always calmed her and restored her mood.

‘My lady?’ Merlin called softly, once he had secured their horses, laid out the blankets and rugs for the pair and positioned the picnic food invitingly. Clarisse nodded, approaching with caution. She looked at the picnic as if it was a hydra about to attack. ‘You’re fine,’ Merlin whispered. ‘I’m here. And Arthur, for all his bravado, is actually quite kind and gentle.’

Clarisse looked momentarily shocked at his breach of social protocol, but then smiled, reassured. She sat down, maintaining her elegant pose.

‘What’s that you’re whispering Merlin?’ Arthur gleefully plonked himself by Clarisse. ‘Are you maligning me again?’

‘No,’ answered Clarisse, bestowing her most luminous smile on Merlin, who tried not to wilt in its beam. ‘He was actually just saying what a kind master you are.’

‘Sometimes,’ added Merlin, smirking properly this time.

‘Alright, Merlin,’ replied Arthur testily, looking irritated again.

Merlin stood by the rug’s edge for a minute, failing to be unobtrusive, and he could tell that Arthur was trying to catch his eye. He saw Arthur jerk his head – a very clear indication that Merlin should stand off a while.

He retreated to the base of a nearby oak tree, its boughs spreading wide above. Leaves like splayed, green fingers reached for the sunlight. He listened to the murmur of the wind; to the manifold sounds of the life-filled forest. He felt at home. Looking down, he imagined the deep roots of the tree under him, safely bound in the caress of clay earth. Looking up, he saw a sentinel owl twist its head, its amber eyes glinting. ‘Why are you awake?’ he asked it, and in response the owl flew off to a more secret perch.

He plucked three long blades of grass and plaited them slowly, every now and again peering around the tree trunk, ready to rescue Clarisse if needed. Hmmmm. She was _laughing_? That was a very good sign. She laughed at Arthur’s terrible jokes.

Merlin wished for Gwen to return so he could steal some blackberries before they reached Arthur; he planned to stuff his cheeks full of them, until his tongue was stained guilty-purple with berry juice.

He was half-lost in this reverie when the first drop of rain fell. Plop! It came down from a tilting branch and onto his nose. Then another raindrop, and another and another and another and another. The steady thrum of water droplets on leaves was the only sound he heard, until: ‘Mer-LIN!!’

‘Yes, sire.’ Merlin sighed internally. Communing with nature was difficult when you had such a demanding master.

He walked into the glade and found the remains of the picnic hastily abandoned, the rug pulled out from under it and Arthur trying to shelter Clarisse with their makeshift umbrella. ‘Merlin. Bring the blankets. This rug has more holes than our kitchen’s colanders.’

Merlin did as he was asked, bringing most of the remaining blankets and rugs and attempting to make more of a shelter from these already wet materials. The prince and the lady were now showered in water that had fallen through the tiny holes in the rug.

‘Mmmm. Weevils. They’re the worst,’ said Merlin with interest, inspecting the hole-dotted rug.

‘Worse than woodworm?’ growled Arthur.

‘Far, far worse.’ Merlin was trying not to smile as he felt Clarisse slide steadily away from Arthur’s side and insert Merlin in between them. A Merlin sandwich. And now here was Gwen, rushing to reach them, her basket half-full but tipping perilously.

‘Where did THIS downpour come from?’ grinned Gwen, looking up at the heavens from out of their soaking-wet wool shelter. She gathered her skirts into a knot and wrung them out. Merlin hungrily eyed the fruit she’d gathered.

‘Lady Clarisse – are you not too wet?’ Gwen enquired, concerned for their guest’s well-being.

‘Not _too_ wet. Although a handful of wild blackberries will make me happier!’ Clarisse had managed to move in between Merlin and Gwen, so that Arthur was abandoned at the edge of their shelter, attempting to flick raindrops from his shoulder. Merlin was slenderly wedged in between his master and Clarisse – now, what a telling thing _that_ was – while Gwen and Clarisse made a merry twosome, happily delving into the basket for berries.

Merlin let the ladies go first, then dived in himself, doing as he’d wished and stuffing his cheeks full. ‘Less talk, more chewing,’ his mother had always told him at their meagre dinner table. Now, he was feasting like a king and…

Oh. Oh dear. Oh dear oh dear. This wasn’t good. Arthur was looking peeved and a slight curl of his lip announced that he would soon direct his ire at Merlin. His destiny was to know Arthur better than anyone. And right now? Right now, the prince was about to curdle like week-old cream…

‘I just…’ stammered Merlin, leaving their shelter, the sodden roof tipping forwards as he exited.

‘Where are you _going_?’ the prince mouthed.

‘Call of nature…’ mouthed Merlin in response.

Arthur didn’t speak any more silent words, but just shook his head balefully.

Safely out of sight (or so he thought) behind the trunk of the same oak, Merlin looked up at the rain-filled sky. ‘ _Hleów-feðer_ ,’ he whispered, his pupils flashing bright amber. The highest boughs above the glade grew thick with leaves, spreading out and out until their dense, protective shade kept off the worst of the rain.

Returning hastily over the muddied ground, he caught Clarisse’s questioning glance. She frowned, then shook her head slightly, as if she was trying to remember something, or trying to forget. Merlin scrunched up his fists and prayed to the forest spirits that she hadn’t seen him. Surely she hadn’t seen him. Had she?

Diving back under the shelter, he felt Clarisse stealthily nudge him towards Arthur again, smiling as she shared the fruit with Gwen. Arthur was looking seriously put out at this stage. Merlin wondered whether he should stop the rainfall altogether. Only some of their party were enjoying this little squeeze of a shelter. _And_ he hadn’t eaten much more than ten berries; a paltry mouthful.

The ever-wise Gwen had intuited their group dynamics quite easily. She was trying to stop from succumbing to silent, shoulder-shaking giggles. Merlin could tell, and he didn’t dare look at her, in case he was infected by her mirth. Be calm, be still, be….

He snorted.

‘Sorry,’ he gasped. ‘Trying to hold in a… sneeze.’

‘If you sneeze again, Merlin…’ Arthur admonished him sternly.

‘I won’t, I promise…’

This time, it was Gwen’s turn to snort loudly. She’d smeared berry juice on the back of her hand, and her lips were flushed dark purple.

‘I don’t know _what’s_ got into you two!’ Arthur tried in vain to stay prince-like, while rivulets of rainwater ran down the back of his neck and under his jerkin. He pulled at the blankets, scattering raindrops. ‘Watch it!’ he jostled against Merlin, whose slim form was _clearly_ taking up far too much room.

‘Ow!’ complained Merlin, having been dug in the ribs by Arthur’s elbow.

‘It’s stopping,’ noted Clarisse sadly. The rain was indeed turning from a heavy hiss into a more delicate shower. Every part of her robe was semi-sodden, but she didn’t mind. She was enjoying Gwen’s company, their fingers twining in the basket as they ate their way through the plump wild berries.

‘Last one. Arthur?’ Gwen passed the basket along. Arthur looked at the solitary berry and felt even more downcast. Why did his manservant have to get in the way – literally get in the way! – of his twin desires?

‘No.’ Arthur grumped. Clarisse gave him a reprimanding look. ‘I meant: no, thank you,’ he added stodgily. Merlin eyed that single berry in the basket. He looked at Clarisse and Gwen, who nodded a yes in unison. He plucked out the berry and posted it onto his tongue. Mmmm. Mmmmm mmmmm mmm  mmmmmm. That berry was the sweetest he’d ever tasted. It took the edge off his fear that Clarisse had somehow spotted him…

‘It’s stopped.’ declared a wistful Clarisse, observing the scatter of lighter clouds in the sky, no longer inkblot grey. ‘Do we have to go back?’

‘I’m afraid we do, milady.’ Gwen produced a look that only she could give – a little, pressed smile that expressed regret.

‘Merlin – will you hand me up to my horse?’ requested Clarisse. ‘My dress is too drenched with rain.’

‘Of course, my lady. Gwen and I will clear up here, then follow after. To make sure you’re safe,’ Merlin reassured her, binding his hands together so Clarisse could use them as a temporary lift.

‘Oh. I’ll be quite safe! There’s no need for an escort. I can even see the tips of Camelot from up here.’ Perched securely on her horse, she nodded at some point beyond the leaf-fluttering wall of trees. The rain had truly drenched her dress; the bodice appeared semi-translucent against her skin. It was as if the sheen of her civility had been washed away, and here she was: the person that hid just below the surface. Pressing her heels into the horse’s flanks, she was soon half-obscured by the forest as she cantered back towards the castle.

Arthur slipped mud-shoed to his horse, loosed the reins and mounted. He nodded a curt goodbye to Merlin and Gwen, before galloping after the Lady: a gallant determined to see her safely home. 

Left alone, Merlin and Gwen collapsed onto a soggy rug, their clothes utterly soaked, lips and faces adorned with smears of delectable fruit.

‘' _Sneeze’_ …?’ laughed Gwen.

‘Snort…’ replied Merlin gleefully.

‘Oh. Oh,’ giggled Gwen.

‘I don’t think I can move,’ Merlin confessed, as he lay curled up and shaking with mirth on the wet carpet.

‘Don’t make me laugh again!’ Gwen implored him ineffectually, as combined, they let out their pent-up laughter.

‘OK. I can’t promise though!’ Merlin’s declaration was broken up with a heehee of merriment. His belly hurt. Really, really hurt. He couldn’t tell if this was from the few berries he’d so hastily scoffed, or the fits of laughter, or quite possibly both.

‘It was just… Arthur! His… face!’ Gwen made a face uncannily like Arthur’s: a blend of tetchy and unamused.

‘You know… you should be nice to him.’ replied Merlin, turning serious all of a sudden.

‘I’m _always_ nice to him!’

‘Ahh, but…’ Merlin made dopey, lovesick eyes and fluttered his lashes teasingly. He had no art at playing Cupid, but neither was he a blind fool. ‘You know what _I_ think!’

Gwen giggled again, but she’d turned more serious too. ‘Perhaps. But it’s not to be.’

‘Why do you say that?’ argued Merlin, propping himself up on one elbow. He became acutely aware of how freezing and soaked through the rug was.

‘Because! You know full well. For a commoner to marry a prince… it’s… unheard of.’ Gwen gave a half-smile, while picking at the grass reflectively.

‘You’re not a commoner in my eyes. You’re far more a queen than most of these ladies.’

‘Well, thank you, Merlin. At least I’m held high in _your_ estimation.’ Gwen rubbed at a juice stain on his cheek affectionately.

‘And Arthur’s!’ insisted Merlin.

‘Maybe,’ was all that Gwen would say. ‘We ought to clear this up. Shall we wring everything out before we pack?’

‘Yes,’ agreed Merlin decisively. ‘Otherwise it will be too heavy a burden to carry.’

Gwen looked up and smiled. ‘Let’s share the burden then, shall we?’

Merlin wished that he could. And as for Gwen, she wanted to unburden herself too. So, so much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‘Hleów-feðer’ means “shelter-feather,” in Anglo-Saxon, but is used figuratively in some Old English literature, to refer to putting a protective arm around someone.


	3. Bedtime Confessions

After they had returned to Camelot, Merlin was kept incessantly busy. Stable the horses. Take a footbath of warm water infused with lavender to his master’s chambers. Listen to Arthur’s retelling of the rain-halted picnic. A small ceremony in-between, which required the prince to wear ceremonial robes. Ceremonial robes on. Ceremonial robes off. Dinner-time garments on. Take ceremonial robes to the laundry. Run to the kitchens. Carry dinner to Arthur’s chambers. Listen to the prince debate what to send to the Lady Clarisse – a posy of flowers, a singing minstrel, a hearty late supper…?

In the end, Arthur sent Merlin as his emissary, with a note expressing the prince’s dismay _and_ gratitude concerning the picnic.

Merlin sighed, causing the torch flames in the castle corridor to flicker wearily. He’d not even seen Gaius today. He’d eaten _fewer_ than fifteen berries. And, far far more dangerous: his secret might have been compromised.

He knocked on Clarisse’s door with some trepidation.

‘Come in.’ She was sitting at her vanity table, staring into the mirrored glass. Her hair no longer gleamed with raindrops, but still shone vibrantly in the glow of the torch-lights.  

Merlin went to stand close by and coughed pre-emptively. It was as if she’d donned a mask. Her face reassembled, and a smile grew where he knew one shouldn’t be. The smile only reached to the edges of her lips: it didn’t appear in her eyes.

‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Lady Clarisse,’ he began. ‘My master wishes to send his apologies for our misadventure in the woods.’ Merlin held out the note containing Arthur’s message, which the lady took with nimble fingers and placed unread on her dressing table. ‘If he’d known it would rain, he would have suggested anothe…’

‘Will you hear my confession?’ interrupted Clarisse, hands curling into tight fists. She talked to him indirectly, all the while regarding her reflection caught in the mirror frame. ‘I feel bound to unburden myself, and you are one who can keep close guard on secrets.’

‘My lady?’ Merlin was terrified. _‘Secrets’_ … did she know about him? The instant he’d used his magic in the forest; her quizzical look – it all made sense. He must deny everything.

‘You see... I just don’t like... Arthurs. I like... Gwens,’ admitted Clarisse in discomfort, her words toppling one after another unsteadily.

Merlin said, ‘Oh.’ Then he said: ‘Oh!’

‘‘Oh’, indeed.’ Clarisse smiled ruefully. ‘Can I trust in your discretion?’

Merlin nodded. On second thoughts, he wasn’t that surprised. All those little-big clues: the studied indifference to Arthur; the happy sharing of the succulent fruit... it all pointed to.... ‘Ohhh.’ His mouth gaped like a line-caught fish. For a moment, he forgot he was in the presence of a lady.

‘I see that you understand me,’ continued Clarisse. Then her tone grew heartfelt and pleading: ‘But I’m not sure you appreciate the difficulty I’m in? Keeping something like this a secret, I mean. It’s awful. Having to live your life as one person, trying to conform to what’s expected of you: when underneath, you’re _completely_ different.’

Merlin knew what she meant. He knew all too well, and clamped his mouth closed to stop from disclosing his own heart-full secret. But he was sure now – Clarisse hadn’t seen what he’d done in the forest. His neglectful stupidity, to almost reveal his deep-down gift in such an idiotic way...

Clarisse stood and faced him, catching hold of his hands in her insistent grasp. ‘Merlin. Please, please promise me...’

‘Not to tell Arthur that you like Gwens?’ blurted Merlin, embarrassed and relieved in equal measure.

‘That’s right!’ Clarisse forced herself to smile, returning to a facsimile of happiness. ‘Now, I’m sure the prince needs your night-time ministrations. And, when you talk of me to him, maybe you can mention I’m cold-hearted, indifferent, and full of guile. That I have disgusting bunions, or huge warts. Whatever you like. But paint a picture of me that will be sure to lessen his ardour.’ She nodded, as if the deal was already done, and Merlin had accepted her suggestions. Waving him away, she added lightly:

‘Oh and… can you send Gwen to me when she’s finished preparing the Lady Morgana’s chambers? I’m in need of comfort and company.’

Merlin nodded a yes, dazedly taking in what he’d just been ordered to do. But Clarisse had already turned around and was untwisting her hair from the intricate braids she’d worn that day. Merlin bowed and walked out backwards, stumbling full of thought into the corridor.

Upon re-entering Arthur’s chambers, Merlin wasn’t surprised to see the prince standing pensively at the casement, staring out onto the stone courtyard below and tapping his forefinger against his cheek.

Hearing footfall, he half-turned, looking downcast to see his manservant. He didn’t even ask how Clarisse had taken his letter of apology. He knew that Merlin’s re-appearance meant ‘time for bed’, so acting out of habit, he dutifully undressed, put on his waiting night-clothes and slipped under the coverlet, letting Merlin place a heated stone at his chilly feet to keep his toes from freezing.

Merlin was just about to blow out the torch by the door and thankfully depart, when he heard a small voice behind him.

‘Mer-lin?’ It called beseechingly. Then a plaintive echo: ‘Mer-lin?’

‘Yes, sire?’ He glanced over his shoulder, then turned around: careful not to take a step back and be drawn into a long discussion about romance and ladies and the like.

‘I’m not sure the Lady Clarisse is that fond of me, you know. She was quite – absent – today. She didn’t laugh at most of my jokes...’ Arthur’s face was scrunched up in puzzled remembrance.

‘She has bad breath. **Very.** Bad. Breath. Positively stinking, actually. _That’s_ why she doesn’t like to get too close.’ Merlin lied outright, as he’d been ordered. All for Arthur’s sake, of course: it was misleading him, so he didn’t get even more misled.

Arthur sat up in bed, frowning. ‘Merlin. Are you making things up again?’

Merlin made a movement that involved nodding and shaking his head simultaneously. ‘Mmnnnmmmm,’ he replied noncommittally, thinking of Gwen caring for Clarisse at this very moment. And Clarisse gazing up at Gwen, and Gwen bending down to stroke her face. The tender trail of fingertips on bare skin and...

His imagination was wrenched back to reality by Arthur: ‘But you know: I don’t really mind,’ the prince was pronouncing. ‘Because I’ve realised...’

There was a fearful pause. It got longer, and longer and longer and...

‘I like – Gwen.’ confessed Arthur, a mixture of jubilant and pained at his admission. ‘More than... like.’

‘Gwens?’ Merlin repeated. He didn’t need to gape at this revelation: he’d known _this_ all along.

‘Yes,’ replied Arthur, surprised at his servant’s non-reaction. ‘Gwens. I mean: Gwen!’

‘Mnnnmmm,’ said Merlin. His head was aswirl with all the possible happy outcomes. Queen Gwen. Now, **_that_** would be something. A just queen, who would be more than Arthur’s equal...

‘The thing is – I’ve no idea how to tell Clarisse – or Gwen!’ admitted Arthur, half-slumped in his bed and half-turned to Merlin, but not looking him fully in the face. He liked to pretend he wasn’t really asking for advice.

Merlin adopted his most placatory, reassuring tone: ‘Don’t worry sire. I’m sure everything will work out for the best. And I’m fairly sure that Clarisse won’t be crying herself to sleep tonight...’

‘D’ you think?’ asked Arthur.

‘Yes, I do.’ replied Merlin simply. If there was a single thing he was sure about, it was that Clarisse wouldn’t mind. At all.

‘Thanks, Merlin,’ smiled Arthur in relief, sinking back down under his covers. ‘Y’ know, **_sometimes_** , you give quite good advice.’

‘Thank you, sire.’ Merlin bowed in appreciation, then turned to finally, finally snuff out the torch and retire gratefully to his own bed. As the room dimmed into darkness, Merlin heard Arthur’s parting shot:

‘Only sometimes, though. I don’t want you getting a big head about it.’

‘Me? **_Never_** , sire.’ Merlin grimaced to himself, then gave an elongated yaawwnn. How much he wanted to transport himself instantly to his own room and avoid any more bedtime confessions. He had magic running through him, like a vein of liquid gold. But no measure of magic, he thought, could thwart true love’s intended aim.


End file.
